


The Cottage, The Party

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Care, Fluff, Humor, Other, Overstimulation, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Perhaps the most indulgent fluff so far: an unexpected party, a somewhat overwhelmed angel, and a caring demon.





	The Cottage, The Party

It had started as a quiet tea with Anathema and Newt at Jasmine Cottage to discuss the upcoming nuptials. Within fifteen minutes, however, the nose of a certain hell hound led the Them inside, and on the tails of the Them (who had messaged to say they were having tea “at Anathema’s with the godfathers”) came several of the Them’s parents, including both Youngs, both Wensleydales, Pepper’s mother, and Brian’s father, all of whom were slightly confused by the knowledge that they both implicitly trusted these two strange men for some reason while also knowing nothing about them (this was, as it happens, the fault of a certain former Antichrist, who had not fully considered adult concerns when deciding he was curious enough to want to keep the Angel and Demon around and therefore made some adjustments to certain adult minds; apparently “because Adam trusts them” wasn’t quite enough for the parents, go figure). 

The tea had to be moved outdoors, with every chair in the house dragged out into the sunshine along with the kitchen table, Newt’s tea service, and a tea service surreptitiously miracled up by Aziraphale from the cottage in South Downs. Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves not in the secondary role of wedding dress providers as anticipated, but as the absolute center of attention of a noisy bunch of children and their very curious and somewhat demanding adults. Crowley, always one for a bit of drama, did well enough. He didn’t tell any inappropriate stories or claim they were going to eat the children (all right, only once). Nevertheless, his laissez-faire attitude was somewhat off-putting, and Aziraphale was called upon to lay on every ounce of angelic charm he possessed to assure everyone that the Them were in responsible hands with the odd couple. 

It was even true, largely due to their experience with Warlock, former ward and current pen-pal (if the term is not too esoteric in this electronic age). Before him, they’d had a very uncertain view of the requirements of young humans not yet ready to be fully in charge of themselves. But with a bit of Nanny speak and some warm angelisms, it was generally agreed that these two godfathers were excellent choices, and by the time the party was breaking up a mere four hours later, the parents were all firmly convinced they’d come up with the idea themselves, and wasn’t it odd they all chose the same couple? There was even talk of a shared holiday while the “children stayed with the Fells” (Crowley’s explanation that Crowley was his last name had been more or less ignored when Aziraphale kept calling him by it), which both angel and demon found frankly terrifying. 

It was Crowley who finally broke things up. He’d been watching his angel, who began comfortably friendly and had worn down, over time, to nervously twitchy. “Well!” he announced in the midst of three on-going conversations, two of which Aziraphale was meant to be participating in (humans were always drawn to him, unless he made an actual effort to scare them off a la the bookshop), “we’ve a drive home, and we’ve got to see to the dog, so we’ll be on our way.”

“You have a dog?” Brian asked, perking up, to which Crowley, always honest with children, answered, “No,” even as he reached out and levered Aziraphale to his feet. 

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, as if coming back to himself from a fair distance. “Oh yes, of course. It has been lovely meeting everyone but,” the look he gave Crowley was thankful, “we do have a fair drive ahead of us.” 

There were crowded good-byes which Crowley, no longer terribly concerned about good manners, elbowed and shouldered out of the way until they were beyond the garden gate and he was opening the door to the Bentley for Aziraphale to slide in. Immediately, Pepper’s mother and Adam’s father wanted to ask questions about the car, which Crowley ignored with a polished smile and a wave as he got in as well.

The moment the doors closed, there was blessed and complete silence, despite the chattering mortals only a few feet away. Crowley started her up and attempted to send a mental signal to the car that now wasn’t the time for loud music or, in fact, any music. She must have heard, or sensed it on her own, because she only purred to life and left the radio off.

He didn’t speak as he drove onto the lane that would lead out through the woods to the main road. Night was falling, and his angel was fidgeting and worrying his hands, picking at manicured nails, leg twitching, staring out the window with eyes that didn’t focus on anything.

Too many people. Too much noise.

Aziraphale had never done particularly well in crowds. He’d tried to stand somewhat apart as long as Crowley had known him, and maintained a discreetly polite circle of personal space only one demon crossed at his own leisure. It wasn’t noticeable, because Aziraphale also gave off an aura of peace that came with being an angel – even if the angel himself was twitching on the inside. 

“Not fitting?” Crowley asked quietly about five minutes into the drive.

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. Once he would have denied it – did, for millennia – but they were past any such hubris these days. “No,” he said with a little smile. “Not fitting.”

Crowley nodded. It was a sensation they shared, for different reasons – that feeling of not quite fitting in their skin. For Crowley, it was more literal – a need to change presentation, or species. For Aziraphale, it was a sense of too much – too much noise, color, people, questions, all making him feel like his corporeal form wasn’t quite right. Like he wanted to burst out and leave it behind – which would, unfortunately, destroy it.

“Want me to drive it all,” he asked, “or cut it short?”

Aziraphale reached out, one gently tremoring hand resting momentarily on top of Crowley’s. “Drive, please,” he said. “But not in the city.” 

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale lifted the hand away. Crowley didn’t take it personally. There were times he wasn’t in the mood to touch, either, though they generally didn’t apply to his angel. He drove at a somewhat reasonable speed, only the soft sound of the engine and their breathing breaking the silence as Aziraphale watched woods and fields go by from the passenger’s seat.

He went around cities and added time to their drive, but Aziraphale didn’t complain. Instead, he calmed by stages – his hands stopped twisting together, his shoulders fell to a more natural level, he rolled and cracked his neck. He took a few slow, steady breaths.

They drew in front of their own quiet cottage by moonlight, and Aziraphale was out of the car before Crowley could come around and get the door for him. The angel stood for a moment in their garden, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of flowers and leaves and home. His hair shone, and his blue eyes, when they opened, met Crowley’s with warm affection. 

Crowley cleared his throat and tucked his sunglasses into his coat pocket. “In you go,” he said, “I’ll make the tea.”

A gentle hand squeezed his. “Thank you, my love,” the angel said, and into the house he went as a demon fought his corporation’s desire to blush. Really, he was a fully grown demon of 6000+ years, never mind the time before, an actual painter of nebulae turned Serpent of Eden. He was not going to blush over his favorite fond pet name.

Aziraphale sat on the sofa rather than in his chair – a good sign – and Crowley sauntered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. As he did, he began to sing – low, soft, just enough to float across the counter to the angel in the living room. It was an ancient song, a lullaby in a language forgotten by time, soft and sweet. It was one of the tunes he’d stolen as Nanny, caring for the wrong boy who was, in the end, the right one; the Youngs and Tadfield had been what the Antichrist needed, not a pair of meddling beings with no clue what they were doing. Warlock, on the other hand, in that great house-

Well.

This song wasn’t for Warlock, however, and so he didn’t change the words. He let the ancient sounds roll over his tongue, meld into another song in another language – Hebrew, one of his favorites – then into another, in Russian. 

“You’re so beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed when Crowley came in with the tea. Crowley smiled, still humming something gentle, something sweet, something calm. He raised an eyebrow at the space on the sofa and Aziraphale gave him a little nod and one of his cutest smiles (Aziraphale had an absolute arsenal of smiles, and Crowley was a sucker for all of them).

Crowley sat, and the angel curled against him, soft curves against hard angles. His sigh, when it came, was content. “Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible, because Crowley may work hard to maintain an image of cool, but Aziraphale had his own idiosyncrasies that embarrassed him. The way the world could be _too much_ – overstimulating, Crowley told him the term was – had always felt un-angelic to him. 

Crowley traced a gentle hand along Aziraphale’s shoulders, then traced long nails into the soft hair and gave Aziraphale’s scalp some gentle scratching that made the angel wiggle happily against his side. He didn’t say “you’re welcome;” it wasn’t needed. Aziraphale loved a snake and a woman and a man and something in-between; Crowley loved an angel who coveted and loved and needed time alone. He only hummed something that sounded like “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s body grew heavier against Crowley’s side as he cuddled shamelessly. He took Crowley's left hand in both of his, soft fingertips gently massaging. If perhaps more attention was paid, thoughtfully, to the base of the ring finger, Crowley didn't notice. He only petted the angel's hair and pressed a kiss here and there and made content noises.

“Sing some more?” Aziraphale asked finally, greatly daring. This singing was new, and it had done its job well.

Crowley smiled, and hid a kiss in golden-white curls, and sang a song of love and trust in a language only they remembered.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self indulgent fluff in the series, and as such may feel a bit random. That's okay - my ADD had a hell of a time in a large, crowded, noisy meeting all day yesterday. Also, there was a request for some Aziraphale-pampering!


End file.
